


Hewn City Nightclub

by ink_like_starlight



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Chair Sex, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Hewn City Nightclub, Lap Sex, Lapdance, Lemon, Light Dom/sub, Lingerie, Nipple Play, Orgy, Public Nudity, Public Sex, Rescue, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Starfall, Tamlin The Tool, Teasing, compliments, dom!rhys, modern day AU, sub!feyre, will add more tags with new chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 16:16:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15271365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ink_like_starlight/pseuds/ink_like_starlight
Summary: Modern Day AU where the Hewn City Nightclub is the place to go for dirty, rough, dark, and kinky sex, where everyone wears a mask and can scream as loud as they want--fuck whoever they want--under the cover of anonymity. A collection of drabbles, one shots, canon and fanon couples, and my bisexual ass creating other bisexuals.The chapters exists independently of each other. Credit goes to Sarah J Maas for her amazing characters, world building, and canon smut. She’s the queen.





	Hewn City Nightclub

This was Feyre’s first time at the Hewn City Nightclub. Mor had insisted Feyre accompany her.

_“The drinks are great, but the entertainment is even better.”_

As soon as they’d arrived, Mor had donned a vibrant scarlet lace mask and disappeared. Feyre, wandering unaccompanied to the bar, ordered a strawberry daiquiri from the masked bartender. Loud, upbeat music projected from each overhead speaker. Other masked faces smiled and teased and brazenly kissed.

Feyre’s own mask, a gleaming black filigree metal with glimmering star-like crystals and delicate, silver chains, hid enough of her face for her to believe she could really be considered anonymous like Mor said. She never did explain why that was necessary though. Sure the dancing and kissing and dry humping was bold, but nothing you wouldn’t find in other, unmasked clubs. And Feyre felt no shame drinking colorful, fruity drinks because, quite frankly, alcohol tastes like shit.

Mor was right; her drink was superb.

Feyre turned in her stool, sipping her cold, red drink, and observed the other guests around her. Despite Feyre’s rave-like expectations, the studio space was surprisingly classy. Velvet and leather chairs sat in groups and lined the walls in booths. White lanterns dropped from the ceiling. Shadows danced along each wall and down every hall. Wherever Feyre looked, she saw stunning suits, glistening gowns, and so many different masks. A good number of couples--and groups--were making their way down those halls.

Her own gown was one of her best ones. She’d dressed according to Mor’s instructions. Or rather, she dressed in the clothes Mor dug out of her closet and threw at her. The hem of her dress trailed against the ground, the fabric dark yet gleaming, like obsidian. She was pretty proud to have found it, at a reasonable price too. It was still a splurge, but she’d recently broke up with her abusive ex-boyfriend Tamlin and she deserved something nice. Mor said the Hewn City Nightclub would help her forget him. With the way she sat alone, nursing a quickly melting drink, Feyre didn’t see that happening tonight.

But maybe she spoke too soon.

Just as Feyre was about to turn back to the bar and start a lonely chat with the bartender, three looking men approached her, wearing makeup and accessories that stretched their eyes, sharpened their teeth, made them seem otherworldly. They didn’t seem friendly.

The one in the center spoke. “Oh, a fresh face? You look like you’re a bit confused.”

“We haven’t seen new bait in a while,” said the one on the left. His eyes unnerved her.

“Well, want to join us?” The third one asked with a flash of teeth that set off alarm bells.

“Oh, uh, no thanks. I’m actually waiting for someone…” Feyre glanced away, taking a nervous sip of her drink. She frantically scoured the surrounding area, looking for a friendly face.

She caught the eye of a well dressed, dark-haired face. Steeling her spine and praying he played along, she hopped off her stool and pushed between the first two men, linking arms with her unlucky new friend.

He smiled down at her like they’d known each other for years. “There you are.” Eyes roving over the three men, he added, “Thank you for finding her for me.”

Something in his tone or his look must have terrified them. The group blanched, turning away. Feyre let the stranger lead her away for a while. They walked towards a booth towards the edge of the club. When Feyre was a comfortable distance from the group, she pulled away from him.

“Thank you for rescuing me there. It was a pretty uncomfortable situation.”

She had to look up to meet his eyes, which were a stunning purple underneath a mask very similar to her own: like the starry sky one can only see from high up in the mountains. In fact, his entire ensemble seemed to fit that theme, stark blacks with hints of starlight silver. Feyre couldn’t help noting how well his suit fit him.

“No problem at all.” He smiled, softly, without menace. “You haven’t been here before have you, Darling?”

It must be the way she was behaving. Or maybe people just didn’t order strawberry daiquiris. Whatever reason, it was apparently glaring obvious how new she was. She decided to brush off his Darling. “Yeah, my friend brought me without much explanation then abandoned me as soon as we got here.”

“Well that wasn’t very kind.” There was something in his voice, something that made Feyre think he knew more than he let on. “Then maybe I can accompany you tonight? We aren’t meant to use our real names here, so you can call me Rhys.”

She hesitated, a small smile gracing her lips. Maybe she’d get some entertainment after all. “It would be my pleasure, Rhys. As for what you can call me, why don’t we just stick with Darling?”

“If it pleases you, Darling,” Rhys said, punctuating with a wink. This time, he slid his arm into hers and they began walking again. “The Hewn City Nightclub offers a special,” a contemplating pause, “ _service_ that most other nightclubs don’t, and one vital vow: anonymity.”

“And what is that special service?”

“Shall I show you?” His voice was silk, his lips velvet. He drew her in with the promise of pleasure.

“Please do.” It was as if the air shifted around them. Something was laced in those words, like a bargain made, a bond formed.

Rhys’ eyes gleamed, and suddenly, Feyre felt that the center of his attention was a very dangerous place to be.

 

Rhys led her down one of the darkened, shadow-lined halls. Closed doors appeared at intervals. On them hung a small, curving neon sign that read, “Open.” Very few of them were lit. At the end of the hall, two thick, wooden double doors barred their entrance to whatever Rhys was leading them to.

Voices escaped from the cracks, muffled. The noises she heard… they didn’t sound like words, but like cries.

Feyre laughed nervously. “This isn’t like some kind of torture chamber is it?”

Rhys merely smiled and pushed the doors open.

At first, Feyre could only make out people on a stage and a giant, writhing shadow of an audience. And masks, on every face. Then she registered the noises, not cries of pain, but moans of pleasure. And the audience, many of them were very exposed. The performers too. Bodies sprawled across lounges, tables, even the floor, moving against each other, anonymous faces contorted with orgasm.

And despite Feyre’s shock, even her disgust, her eyes glazed over just a bit as warmth pooled in her stomach. Rhys, just a step behind her, swept her hair over one shoulder, lowering his lips to the crest of her exposed ear, and whispered, “What do you think of the service?”

Every nerve in Feyre’s body narrowed to that touch, his lips so close to her neck, his hand on her shoulder, if he just moved it lower…

“I was informed you need a distraction, my dear.” His other hand moved to rest on her hip and she couldn’t help but lean into that touch, all the while cursing herself.

_Dammit, Mor._

Maybe she felt emboldened by the alcohol, or the mask, or the pure, sharpened defiance boiling in her, but she said, “I’d love a distraction.”

 

That’s what she said, but even her strongest, basest urges couldn’t get her to jump right in and join the group. Rhys, who seemed to sense this, settled them into a more private, u-shaped couch. A sheer, black curtain separated them from the rest of the room. The leather beneath her was smooth, but she couldn’t help wondering what had happened before right where she was sitting.

He slid into the both next to her, so close that their thighs pressed together. His gaze was locked on her, eyes languidly trailing over her body like he was slowly undressing her. “So how would you like to do this, Darling? Tell me what you want.” As he spoke, a hand dragged possessively over her clothed thigh, his thumb stroking the softness beneath.

What did she want? She wanted to be fed the touches she’d been starved of. She wanted to let go, release herself of all accountability. She wanted to put the burden of her pleasure on someone else for once.

The music was a steadying beat over the roaring filling her ears. She could see people watching with mild interest, to see what would happen. Yet, they might as well have been alone. “I want you to take responsibility.”

“Whatever My Lady desires. Remember, our safeword is _Starfall_.”

Whatever thoughts she may have had one the word choice disappeared as Rhys slowly dragged her zipper down. The fabric spilled over her shoulders and exposed skin, the curve of her breasts peeking over the gathered dress. The scent of him, like citrus and the sea, washed over her as he leaned in, his lips brushing against her throat. Her body became taut and loose at the same time and she tilted to give him more access, breath hitching.

This daring, this recklessness, so unlike her. But under her mask, who would know anyway? So she let herself enjoy, red painted lips curving into a smile. A soft sigh escaped.

Her dress slipped lower, fully exposing her black, lacy bra and the hem of her matching thong. They were close enough now that she could feel the small growl rumble in his chest, lustful. Warmth pooled in her core at the sound. A finger slipped under the wire of her bra, tracing the space right below her breasts. Her nipples, stiff under the material, begged for attention. Be he just kept brushing light touches against her skin, not moving past brief bursts of contact. She suspected he wanted her to actually beg.

One hand splayed against her back, he eased them into a laying down arrangement on the booth. In that position, Rhys had no problem slipping the gown off her. Now, so exposed, practically in public, she was deeply aware of the small audience they’d gathered. Her face, her blood,  heated.

His voice was a whisper against the curve of her ear. “Who said you could look at anyone but me?” He punctuated the question with a swift, hard pinch to her nipple and a loud cry slipped between her lips. Her eyes fluttered closed, head tilting back.

In a moment, her bra was unclasped and thrown unceremoniously to the side. “Did that hurt?” His mouth kissed their way to the nipple he’d pinched and gave it a long lick.

Lightning shot through her. Her back arched, pushing herself further into his mouth. His fingers still moved along her thigh, traveling higher, higher, so close to discovering the wetness between her legs. She didn’t want him to stop, the mouth on her breast, the hand so close to her arousal.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured.

In just panties and heels, with the sexiest man Feyre had seen in the entire club servicing her, she felt beautiful. She felt deserving of pleasure. How long had it been since she felt this confidence?

The hand on her back slid down to the curve of her ass and gave a proprietary squeeze. At the same time, the hand on her thigh skimmed along her wet core. She gasped. More, she wanted more, more, more. She wanted to touch _him_.

Even Rhys’ crisp, grey suit couldn’t hide the growing hardness beneath his pants. Feyre reached for it, but her hand was quickly snatched away and pinned to the seat above her head.

“Naughty, girl.” He bit down on her peaked nipple and she groaned. “Tonight is about you.”

“Please,” she managed to say.

She thought he might’ve been content just teasing her, wringing as much pleasure out of her as slowly as possible. But he understood her desire, he desperation for _something_ to soothe the ache between her legs. Nudging the slim fabric aside, he slipped a finger into her, dragging a moan from her throat.

Before she could catch a breath, he began moving, adding a second finger, pumping in and out, filling her over and over and over. She could only moan in response.

“We’ve gained quite the audience,” Rhys drawled. Indeed, a crowd had gathered around the booth. Silhouettes hovered behind the curtain. “Why don’t we give them a show?”

The world tilted below her and before she knew it, Rhys pivoted them back upright into seated positions except… Feyre wasn’t seated on the couch, but his lap. His hard length pushed against her ass. Her back pressed against his chest, her front bare and visible to their audience, legs spread open across his lap. They were watching her writhe in his arms, listening to the needy whines Rhys drew from her.

She was out of control and she _loved it_.

Feyre ground against him, eliciting a delicious groan. Rhys continued his assault on her breasts, squeezing, pinching, rubbing. They bounced in his hands as she moved up and down his length. His lips brushed along her neck, as if trying to immortalize the curve of it in his memory.

Still, she wanted more. She wanted him. Every glorious inch of him, Feyre wanted inside her.  “Rhys,” she mewled, her desire and impatience bleeding into that single word.

Denying her was impossible.

In a moment, his zipper was down, revealing the entire, impressive magnitude of him. He was velvet wrapped granite sliding into her. She groaned, sending Rhys into a frenzy at the sound. He was not gentle, and Feyre had no desire for him to be. Aware of every breath, every movement coiling the spring in the depths of her stomach tighter and tighter, they crashed together over and over. She twisted, hands burying in his hair, head tipped back against his shoulder. She grounded herself in his touch, grounded herself to the world she was very near falling off.

Faster and deeper, they moved together.

“I’m close,” Feyre ground out.

Rhys’ lips found hers in response, their kiss anything but gentle. No, it was a war, a clash of tongues, a battle where the prize was pleasure. And when Rhys bit her lip, she was undone. Release ripped through her and he swallowed every sound she made, pounding in and out of her even faster, drawing out her climax. Rhys came just as vocally, sheathing himself to the hilt in her warmth.

And then it was just the sound of their breaths.

“Again,” Feyre snarled.

**Author's Note:**

> I realize the summary says “fuck whoever they want,” but I mean with consent, which is super important! Very off tone, I know. Though I still find emphasizing consent and safety vital, especially for my younger readers exploring their sexuality. Don’t let my dom/sub fantasies convince you otherwise. ;)
> 
> I update every Friday/Saturday! Subscribe to my user profile so you don't miss other works I post. I'm currently working on Pt. 4 of my ACOTAR Role Reversal AU (human Rhys and High Fae Feyre!) and it's called Interrupted Wedding. Guess what scene it is?


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